A leaving junior

In the early winter, when all the yellowed leaves have fallen, my dearest junior tells us she's leaving New York and going back to Korea. People I love seem to be slipping away one by one, like falling leaves. The older seniors have already passed on, and now the juniors are heading to Korea. Is it just my husband and me who are left behind?

Out of her backpack, like a tipsy bundle, tumbled bottles of makgeolli and snacks.

"If it wasn't so heavy, I would've brought more," she said.

Once she starts drinking, her voice gets louder and she says whatever’s on her mind. She even vents her complaints to us, her seniors, treating them like bar snacks to go with her drinks.

Maybe she can’t hold her liquor like before? Her Gyeongsang Province accent was getting thicker—clearly tipsy. I thought she was heading to the bathroom, but instead, she was struggling to squeeze her legs into a long photo booth. Well, maybe she's tired of drinking with the same old seniors who repeat themselves. She used to stay up drinking with us until dawn, even after a short nap.

“Call them. See if they can come,” he said.
When my husband gets a bit tipsy, he gets excited and says:
“Hey, come join us. We’re having a drink.”
And the reply, already slurred:
“I’m already drinking too!”
“Don't overdo it.”
“I love you, sunbaenim!”

“Who is it~”
It's the middle of the day, but the voice sounds like it just woke up.
“You went hard last night, didn’t you? Still passed out?”
Come to think of it, we spent more years together under the excuse of "art" that was more like "alcohol."
As a senior, I wasn’t a great role model or much help—just feel guilty and start mumbling while staring off in a random direction.

I once tried to set her up with a foreigner, not wanting her to struggle alone in New York. But she insisted, “I want to be able to eat Korean food in peace,” so that fell through too. Fine then. Korea's doing well—go. Eat all the Korean food you want, make great work, and live happily without feeling lonely.

The three of us, my husband, she, and I, walked to the subway station, arms around each other, swaying like drunks.
“Sunbaenim, I love you. You know I really like you, right?”
“You drunk?”

“I love you.”

As she walked into the subway entrance, I called out to her back:

“I love you too…”

“Are we the only ones left now?” I said. “The only ones from our class who came first and stayed behind to keep watch over New York?”
“We stayed not because we had somewhere to be—but because we had nowhere to go, no one calling us back.”
“Why’d she have to leave now, in this bleak early winter when all the leaves have fallen? It’s just depressing.”
“You’d better stay healthy. If you’re going to be my drinking buddy, you’ll need to stick around. You’re my best friend, you know.”

I quietly reached for his hand. He pulled it away without a word and walked ahead. My awkward hand buried itself deep in my coat pocket, and my short legs hurried to keep up with him.